Chapter Twenty-Eight
It’s my wedding day, and I’m alone.
Zev was gone before I woke, but I expected nothing different.
Now, no fewer than eleven handmaids crowd around me, fussing and fastening, yet their presence does nothing to ease the loneliness.
The hollow in my stomach has a different name—I know it well.
Since we were children, Sura and I had imagined our weddings—grand and opulent and perfect. I’d swear my groom would be a dashing prince from some far-off land, while she swore it’d be Tumaas.
I always gave in to her, and Tumaas would stand awkwardly at our makeshift snow altar as Sura walked me down the aisle. I’d always imagined it would be the happiest day of my life.
But the dreams of children are often unanswered.
I have no words to express the strange, conflicting feelings warring within my chest. There’s a cutting sense of loss, but also a promise of hope. But strongest of all is resignation.
I chose this.
I came here willingly for my people.
I’m ensuring a better future for this realm. I must never forget that.
And I can’t deny the potent relief in my chest knowing Zev will be my husband and not cold, snickering Faramir. It took only minutes in his presence to recognize the type of man he is—power-hungry and cruel.
And he will be king.
The thought twists my lips with displeasure, and a handmaiden tsks. I straighten my mouth so she can continue dotting my lips with rouge.
I awoke to sharp raps on the door, then a never-ending line of handmaids filing into my chambers.
Last night’s prolonged bath wasn’t enough—they subjected me to another equally long bath, except this time, they also plucked every single hair from my body.
With pursed lips, I bear it all. I’ll play the part they expect—beautiful, demure princess.
When the handmaids finish with me, I definitely look the part. My wedding gown is pure white, with glittering gray gems sewn into the bodice in intricate, swirling patterns. The skirt flares at my hips and trails several feet behind me.
My dark hair has been heated and brushed painfully straight. Half of it is braided into an elegant crown, while the rest cascades over my shoulders, brushing the tops of my breasts.
I stare in the mirror. What is Father doing this very minute?
Is he proud?
Is he worried?
Have I crossed his mind at all?
“Come, princess,” one of the handmaids murmurs. Ten guards flank me instead of six, escorting me to the ceremony outside.
My lips part in surprise.
Even with only a day’s notice, the palace staff created something magical.
The ceremony is in a vast garden, bursting with more blooms and trees than I’ve ever seen.
They arch around the space like living walls, framing a petal-strewn path that cuts the garden in two.
Sofas and chairs flank either side, shaded by a canopy of braided roots draped with cascading white blossoms.
At the front, a beautiful arch of roses and ivy stands ready.
And Zev stands ready before it.
My lungs forget how to work.
He’s dressed in a dark formal tunic and trousers, his black hair slightly tamed today.
He hasn’t shaved—I prefer him this way, with rugged stubble shadowing his strong jawline.
His throat bobs as he takes me in, and a sudden, fierce wave of happiness warms my chest. I’m glad he’s the one waiting at the altar.
With steady footsteps, I march down the aisle.
Alone.
The gazes of the assembled nobles and advisers pierce me like sharp needles—some appraising, others cold. A man with golden epaulets narrows his eyes, gaze crawling up my gown. A woman in violet whispers behind her gloved hand.
But I focus on the man before me—my only constant in weeks of uncertainty.
His steel-gray eyes trail over me as I reach the altar, and a genuine smile curves his full lips as our gazes lock.
My heart stutters.
He’s not the dashing prince from a far-off land I’d imagined, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find him utterly breathtaking. The wind plays with his dark locks, dappled sunlight glinting off his sharp cheekbones.
But the hush that falls over the audience isn’t reverent.
It’s watchful.
Their judgment hums beneath the cordial surface, masked by polite smiles and glittering jewels.
The officiant clears his throat—some senior adviser on Varad’s council. “Today marks a new beginning!” he declares, sweeping his arms in a wide arc. “The union between Prince Zevayr and Princess Mayah will usher in an era of peace between Arbinj and Tundrayn.”
I tune out the rest of his stuffy speech about diplomacy and happiness. As if any of the simpering nobles truly care about Tundrayn—they’d rejoice if the ocean swallowed my homeland tomorrow.
“…a demonstration of powers.”
My attention snaps back to the officiant. I need to prove I’m a capable wielder again? My lips purse with displeasure, and Zev’s eyes light with apology. Similar to the betrothal, he cuts a deep gash into his palm, and I heal it within seconds. The assembled guests clap politely.
“Now, Prince Zevayr will show us the might of Arbinj!”
My heart stops.
Tides suffocate me.
He’s going to summon a storm? Now?
I can’t crumple into a trembling ball in front of all these hateful nobles.
A heavy weight compresses my lungs.
The sky darkens, ominous clouds blotting out the bright sunlight. Wide-eyed, I tilt my face, watching my greatest fear churn above me.
“Hey,” Zev murmurs, his voice pitched low. “Eyes on me.”
I obey, flicking my gaze to his. He clasps my hand and splays it over his heart, its steady beat thudding against my palm.
Keeping his eyes locked with mine, Zev raises a hand overhead.
Thunder rumbles, and I stiffen. He clenches my hand tighter.
I anchor myself to him, to the steady thrum of his heart.
In his eyes, there is no judgment.
Only care.
Only affection.
Only him.
The rise and fall of his chest is measured, and I match my breaths to his.
Deep. Deliberate.
“Brace now, baby,” he whispers, but the words barely register. I’m lost in the molten steel of his eyes, gazing at me with so much tidescursed affection, that I want to shuck my armored exterior and hide away inside him.
A modest bolt of lightning flashes and strikes a large spire at the top of one of the palace towers.
There’s a beat of silence. Of waiting.
Then, thunderous applause rings out. The guests stand and clap for their prince in a way they will never clap for me. Faramir slouches in the front row, his smirk stretched wide enough to reach me at the altar.
He isn’t clapping.
The crowd is still cheering, but the sound is muffled. My pulse still beats in my ears. I blink hard. The storm is over. It’s over. It was only Zevayr. Safe. I am safe.
Between one breath and the next, the sky clears.
My shoulders drop slightly, and Zev presses a lingering kiss to my knuckles, grounding me once more. The officiant completes the ceremony with a few more words.
The audience rises to their feet.
It’s done. I am Zev’s wife.
Princess of Tundrayn and Arbinj.
Zev cups my face, slanting his lips over mine and coaxing my mouth open with a bold flick of his tongue.
It’s not a chaste kiss by any means, but I can taste restraint in every brush of his lips.
For a second, I’m grateful our first kiss occurred behind closed doors, where he didn’t hold himself back.
His eyes burn with want when he pulls away, and I’m certain the same heat is mirrored in my own.
I tear my gaze away, afraid of what he’ll see.
It’s dangerous for me to want.